I laid my dog to rest beneath the old oak tree.

 “I laid my dog to rest beneath the old oak tree. That night, I heard him bark. He was gone… but he still had something to tell me.”

The night my dog died, the world went still.
I found him under the oak where he used to chase squirrels, his body warm but no breath left. A clean cut on his side. Blood on the grass.

The police came. “Probably a coyote,” they said, and left.
But I knew better. Someone had done this.

I buried him under the oak, tears soaking the blanket around him. That night I couldn’t sleep—until I heard it. His bark. Faint. Urgent.

Then I dreamt. He was there—alive, tail wagging—but not coming to me. He barked at the fence, ears flat, warning me.

At dawn, I found fresh pawprints in the mud leading to the fence.
And when I dug where he’d scratched in my dream… I found a knife. Bloody. Buried.

I told the police. They dismissed me. Friends said grief was playing tricks.
But the dreams kept coming, darker each time.

One night, I saw it through his eyes: my neighbor, knife flashing, snake tattoo on his wrist. My dog’s growl. The yelp. Silence.

I woke with fire in my chest.
I searched his garage. Found a box: my dog’s torn collar, blood-stained rags, the knife. His trophies.

He caught me there, knife in hand, slamming me against the wall. His hands at my throat. My vision dimmed.

And then—my dog’s bark. Fierce. Close.
The neighbor flinched. I fought back.

This time, the police believed me. Evidence in their hands. The monster next door, in cuffs.

That night, I dreamt of my dog again—whole, happy, running into the light. His collar was on my nightstand at dawn.

 Forever my protector. Forever my best friend.